Exploring Fault Lines

Finally!!

Last fall, I was ranting about couple-heal-thyself books—all of which seemed to be some variation on “your guy is great and your relationship would be too if you could just manage to stay silent and get into man-adoration mode.” Where's the book called Wow, Your Wife is Great, I wondered.

That one still hasn't been published, as far as I can tell, but Yin seems to have found the next best thing: It's (Mostly) His Fault: For Women Who Are Fed Up and The Men Who Love Them.

Author Robert Mark Alter definitely gets points for the title. (Forgive me for wanting to spread the relationship responsibility around a little.) I wonder how balanced his approach really is? A book like this could be a man basher or it could be a throw back to old "husbands should be in charge" thinking. And the reality always is that when you're fed up, you have some responsibility in that, too.

Have you read it? Let me know whether it’s worth checking out.

Falling and Failing in Love

We’ve fallen out of love. It happens to everyone, apparently. I’ve read at least one expert opinion that is doesn’t take but 18 months of constant contact to change the chemistry from blazing to blasé. They also say it’s not the end of the world—nor necessarily the end of the relationship. Couples can forge strong, lasting relationships based on a new kind of love—one that simmers comfortably, even if it never returns to a boil.

(According to Reva Seth, author of First Comes Marriage: Modern Relationship Advice from the Wisdom of Arranged Marriages, many people in arranged marriages seem to have the opposite experience. They enter a relationship with no expectation of feeling “in love” but grow closer and more loving over time. Lucky them.)

All that sounds reassuring. But when you watch your partner’s mouth move to form the words "I'm not in love with you," it’s like being dropped into an elevator shaft—without the benefit of an elevator. And it’s just as sickening a sensation when you have to admit that the feeling is largely mutual.

That said, my world actually did not end when I got this news. Said Husband is very adamant that “in love” and “love” are two different things and that he retains the latter feeling for me. (That, too, is mutual.) And we’re both optimistic—and have been assured by many folks who’ve been married longer than we have—that this is just the proverbial “bad patch."

In a way, I’m glad all this is out in the open. Call me odd, but for me hearing the worst is better than imagining the worst. For months, we’ve had a hard time talking, touching, even looking at each other. I just couldn’t figure out why—so my mind ran wild with unresolved speculation. But somehow for me, once I know what I’m actually dealing with—the cold, honest truth of it—I feel like there ought to be something I can DO about it. I feel like I have some power in the situation.

So I did what I tend to do when my life feels like it’s running away with me: I sat down and starting writing, trying to map out a resolution. I decided that perhaps we can push past this phase if we stop wallowing in the painful, disappointing feeling of it and start thinking about what is really going on. To that end, I’ve made myself a list of questions for each of us to ponder.

1. What are the things that I’m not in love with? (Buy a fresh ream of paper and make a list.)

2. Are these things annoyances or things I truly disrespect? (Get over the annoyances. Deal with the deep stuff.)

3. Can any of the “disrespect” stuff be discussed and resolved? Am I willing to understand these things differently (i.e. from the other person's perspective) and accept them, too?

4. What are the things that I do love and respect about my once-beloved? (Make another list and really do your best to fill up another ream of paper.)

5. If I weigh these things with an open heart, are they substantial enough to outweigh the other?

6. Can I be patient enough and stay open enough to make sure the answers I give to these questions are really, deeply true?

I figure that if I really stay deep and contemplate these questions, only one thing can happen: We’ll discover that there are things about one another that just cannot be overcome. And those things will be the ones that tell us, with certainty, that were not meant to make a life together. Or they will be the ones that remind us that nothing can tear us apart.

My objective side says that, either way, we’ll benefit from having a clearer idea of how to move forward. The optimistic side of me hopes that the process will reveal something beautiful and valuable—a new way of thinking that will open our hearts wide to love again.

I'm okay. I AM OKAY.

“You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe deserve your love and affection.” --Buddha

Isn’t that breathtaking? Yin sent me this quote after a rich conversation we had on the nature of self-acceptance.

It was prompted when I related an offhand comment from Said Husband. I have often accused him of “lawyering” me—asking questions that make me feel as if I should be on the witness stand. The other day, as he was about to launch a line of inquiry about some subject, he said, “This may seem like lawyering to you, but I’ve always asked questions like this. It’s just the way I am.” (Emphasis mine.) I don’t remember if he actually said, “You’ll get over it.” But that was the implication.

It raised my eyebrows—and my hackles. What a terribly unapologetic, self-justifying thing to say, I thought. How without regard for my opinion or interpretation. How dare he dismiss my accusation.

And then I realized that what I felt wasn’t just anger. It was also envy.

Why don’t I have that same solid sense of self-acceptance? I don’t ever imagine I’ll lose the tendency to push for personal growth and self-improvement; I don’t want to.

But why am I not more willing to be okay with who I am in the midst of that process? To be more compassionate about who I am in the moment would be deliciously spirit-freeing. To accept myself, if not because of my flaws, in spite of them? That is the definition of unconditional self-love. To stand firmly in all myself as a Child of God—recognizing even the God-ness that hides in my chinks and quirks. That would be wholly holy. And don’t I deserve that as much as the next person? Doesn’t everyone? The Buddha thought so.

We women, I'm convinced, have a more difficult time balancing the I’m Okay/You’re Okay model. We either accept other people, bending ourselves around their tendencies (even if it means denying our own). Or we expect other people to be as pliable as we are—and are hurt and disappointed when they don’t yield adequately to us. But aren’t we supposed to compromise—especially those we live intimately with? Aren’t they supposed to compromise, too?

Of course. But there is a line—thin, pliant, as easily broken as the strand of a spider web—between compromising and being compromised. Compromises, good ones, feel healthy and mutual. When we are compromised—subject to concessions that ultimately devalue or undermine who we truly are—an important line has been crossed. Like a spider web, you can’t always see it, but you feel it to sticking to you uncomfortably even after you’re sure you’ve wiped it away.

It made for a rich debate with Yin. She pressed the point that we have to be ready—especially in intimate relationships—to set aside some of the “just the way I am” stuff in the name the union. I agree. But I argued with her (maybe as a means of convincing myself) that boundaries must also be drawn, even in the deepest I love you relationships, so that I love ME is never forgotten.

She defended my hackled response to Said Husband’s comment. What kind of thing was that for him to say? I was right to be offended, she said. But whether his stance is wrong or not, he raised questions I need to explore: Do I deserve my own love, no matter what? And how can I learn the art of self-acceptance?

Talking In My Sleep

I had a chance to go and meet one of my favorite authors. Not at a reading or lecture. She was going to be at a friend’s house, having tea. I was invited. To sit and drink tea with Said Author and my friend. Just the three of us. I was dressed to go. I was in the car. I was on my way.

And I never got there. Because I ended up having a huge, all-consuming “discussion” with Said Husband—on the cell phone, as I was driving, trying to navigate my way to meet Said Author. In the end, I was too distracted to find the place and too much a mess to have enjoyed it anyway. (And lucky I hadn’t wrecked the car in all that drama.) That’s what I told myself anyway, to mask my disappointment at my own self-undermining.

I’ve always believed that, when two reasonable people have an issue, talking it out ought to work. Never mind that, in seven years of marriage, it has rarely yielded much. In fact, I’m beginning to find that talk—at least the way Said Husband and I are doing it—has become a form of self-sabotage. There have been nights when discussions about the State of Our Union have kept us up until 3 in the morning. And, while these hashings seem important at the time, often, in the next-day light I realize that we haven’t covered much new ground or come to any major revelations or resolutions. And, adding insult to injury, I end up exhausted. Not only have I wasted a good night’s sleep, I’ve tanked my ability to function the next day as well.

But I keep doing it. Keep think talking is going to help. According to Susan Page, that’s my first problem. She’s the author of, Why Talking Doesn’t Work: Eight Loving Actions That Will Transform Your Marriage.

The title doesn’t do the book justice. You’ll find it on the “self-help” shelf, but its focus is spiritual. It encourages you to think of marriage (and all relationships) as spiritual practice—a way for you to grow as a person. More connected, more authentic, more aware, more at peace, more in Love. (Big L Love.)

The book asks you to eschew discussion, debate and verbal self-defense in favor of acting with a sense of good will, allowing the other person to just be himself, accepting what is and accepting yourself with the same compassion. Give up problem solving, Page writes. Talking and negotiating isn’t going to solve them—and you’re not going to change your partner any more than he’s going to change you.

So far, the only “loving action” that has come fairly easily for me is Act On Your Own. Stop asking or expecting the partner to do the thing, say the thing, have a revelation you want him to have. Just do what you need to do. I’ve been calling this the “Work Around”—and find that it’s empowering to see that I can find a way to do or have what I need, without being hindered by another person’s actions or inactions.

I’ve had a very hard time with the other “loving actions,” because they require you to consider some practices and concepts that, if you have any ego at all, really stretch you beyond your comfort zone. But I’m inching my way into the book, going back and literally re-viewing the concepts again and again. Remembering that this is supposed to be a spiritual practice—trying again and again until I get it. And reminding myself that this is about me getting it. Because until I get it, I’m going to keep spinning in the same circle of self-sabotage. And I’m never going to get any sleep.

It's Plan A, actually

I’m afraid some of this sounds so cynical and untrusting, as if I’m writing this with my lip curled and my neck rolling, a squinty-eyed, man-hater whispering, “Go ahead. Make my day.” That’s not the intention. (Even if it is, sometimes, my mood.)

My eyes are wide open and I love men. I adore my father. I revere my grandfather. I love and respect my husband. Overall, I have known some really amazing guys in my life. And then there’s Obama. (Hey, any excuse to mention Obama.)

I hope that my Little Bitty will (if she chooses to and if that’s her path) meet a fabulous, respectful, visionary, hard-working, talented, brilliant guy and live in a blessed union of bliss, balance and harmony. But I also hope that she will never forget that she is fabulous, respect-worthy, visionary, hard-working, talented, brilliant and capable of creating a life of bliss, balance and harmony—in or out of a partnership. And—here’s the thing—it will be especially important to maintain that sense of herself if she is, indeed, trying to make a life with someone else.

Ultimately, I guess this “parachute” stuff is not even about my man or my marriage or escaping anything. This is about maintaining myself—and encouraging other women to do the same.

It’s about identity—literally re-membering myself—putting myself back together—and creating my own definition of self that doesn’t include anybody’s name but my own.

It’s about finding purpose and committing to the work that I’m here to do.

It’s about husbanding resources—being smart about my finances, my “papers,” my talent and all my assets—and tapping my creativity to use them wisely.

It’s about cultivating the power and courage that will hold me up so I can keep doing what I need to do for self and family.

It’s about my spirituality, because it takes a strong spirit to give yourself wholly and trustingly to your family and relationships, but still maintain the person created by the Divine.

It’s about the belief that, if I tap into that power, that courage and that spirit, anything is possible. Joy and peace are possible. And that is what I want.

I call this Plan B, but I might need to change the name of the blog. This is about Plan A—putting your own mask on first, keeping yourself grounded and clear about who you are and what you need to be your best and do your best—for yourself and the people you love.

Which ‘08 is this?

Time check: 10:19 a.m. July 22, 2008.

2008.

That's 88 years after women earned the right to vote. 40 years after the first bra burning. 48 years after Father Knows Best went off the air. A month after the first really, truly viable female Presidential candidate conceded.

Why, in 2008, would there be any need for a blog for women who don’t have a Plan B? I don’t mean the abortion pill. I mean an escape route, a parachute, an emergency exit, a safety net. We’re smart. We know better. Right? Right? But I keep hearing these stories.

• The husband who makes an expensive purchase—a sports car, a motorcycle, expensive electronic equipment—finances and family needs be damned.
• The guy who makes a major career decision—one that affects the whole family—without talking to his wife.
• The working mom whose husband tells her that, if they ever split up, the court will give him the kids because she’s never around anyway.
• The guy who withholds grocery money and hides the children’s passports so his wife can’t visit her family in Canada.

Okay, only one of these is potentially an actual crime. (The Canadian wife was found in a puddle of rainwater last week. Dead.) But all of these stories say something about the balance of power in these relationships. It points to the fact that a lot of us—I’m including myself here—are in situations where, if a partner decided to subtly or overtly pull rank, we wouldn’t really have much leverage or recourse.

I’m the last woman in the world who thought she’d be thinking about it this kind of thing. But here I am, an at-home mother of a toddler, whose nest egg disappeared into the down payment on the house, whose job disappeared when we moved away from Manhattan, who depends on a husband for health insurance. (All of this was done voluntarily on my part, I must emphasize.) Thankfully, Said Husband goes to work, comes home with his check and isn't hiding any grocery money.

But if he did? What’s my plan? What’s yours?